


around this table we gather

by ninemoons42



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Barricade Day, Female Friendship, Gen, I wrote this for my friends and for my country, Iftar, Inspired by Real Events, Male-Female Friendship, Philippine Independence Day, Ramadan, and while you're at it read about the farce of my country's government, read about the Marawi City siege please
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-09
Updated: 2017-06-09
Packaged: 2018-11-12 05:10:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,683
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11154924
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ninemoons42/pseuds/ninemoons42
Summary: Cosette, running at her father's heels, has spent several years sojourning in the southern part of the Philippines: where she covers her hair, and observes Ramadan, and never lets go of her need to serve others in the name of the greater good.





	around this table we gather

**Author's Note:**

  * For [kannibal (keio)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/keio/gifts), [EKmisao](https://archiveofourown.org/users/EKmisao/gifts).



> I have tried to get the details of Ramadan and iftar right in this particular story; I apologize in advance for any mistakes.

Slow, she thought. Slow and steady. Careful. 

Cosette blinked, and the stars that flared bright in her field of vision refused to go away for a long breathless moment, and she tried to swallow but her thirst was lodged in her throat like the pins that dotted the seams that she had been sewing all day, the pins that marked out the areas of intricate scrolling embroidery, curves upon curves of stitching meant to adorn certain areas of the lengths of cloth that surrounded her.

Around her, the other women: one who only looked frail -- who had in fact taken quiet and forceful charge of several classrooms’ worth of shocked schoolchildren, and gently led them through the increasingly unsafe streets, upright and firm in her faith that only fools and genuinely evil people would shoot at the children -- her name was Yasmin -- 

Cosette shivered despite the heat and the humidity, remembering the accounts of that trek through debris, through the dust and the choking stink of destroyed homes and shops and offices. It could have been a catastrophe at any point -- it could have been a massacre -- and well did she know that the massacre could still take place at any time. The catastrophe was still hanging over all of their heads. It was just a question of what form that catastrophe would take, over and over again, as the explosions continued, as the soldiers marched on and through -- 

Marawi City: and she’d been here for a while now, if she remembered correctly. Sometimes she couldn’t remember the exact details of arriving here in this place of blue skies by day and vivid sunsets at evening-tide, in this place of too many languages. She could remember winding a piece of cloth around her head for her first veil -- her father’s fingers clumsy yet firm, trying to tuck all the wayward strands of her hair into the crumpled folds. Had they been running from some kind of danger? She thought there were shadows haunting the distant edges of her dreams, shadows hunting her father, causing him to look afraid in those few-and-far-between moments, and she touched the cloth over her heart in the here and now, her hands clenching into fists and the deep-blue material in her hands creasing in protest -- 

“Cosette,” a voice said. A familiar voice. Insolent and high-pitched and protective. 

“Gavroche,” was her answer. 

He was just about at the very outer limits of being allowed into this room full of women, full of quiet industry and the thin strands of color and hope as they were stitched into brave bright cloth -- and he was a welcome interloper, bringing them the news, bringing them the warnings. With the help of his eyes and ears, she and the other women in the room could make plans.

These days he tended to arrive in the golden waning light that meant the sun meeting the horizon.

“Sunset soon,” he said, in the here and now.

Cosette nodded. Blinked at the length of cloth that she had been working on. Now, with her vision a little clearer, she could see the net of curving lines, like flowers and vines and leaves, bright against the darker material, the better to stand out and catch attention, festive decorations for the festive night -- the many festive nights -- still to come, if only they could all survive to see it.

And a hand on her arm, gentle. Guiding. Fatima: a teacher and a Red Crescent volunteer. “Your turn,” she said. 

How Fatima could still smile in these troubled times -- what a beacon she was, Cosette thought, and resolved to kindle a small light of her own. 

And she could start with the preparations for the sunset and its welcome sirens. 

She set the cloth aside. A handful of pins and needles still marking the seams and the next portions of the stitching, so she had to mind her fingertips, because there was just no point in marking the fine material with spots of her own blood. 

Gavroche falling in beside her, whistling jauntily.

She hummed along, recognizing the theme that he was improvising upon, and he flashed one of his cheeky smiles at her in response. “I like you better when you smile.”

“I smile to myself sometimes,” Cosette said. “Makes people wonder why I might be smiling. Maybe they think I’ve got nothing between my ears.”

“That makes those other people stupid.” Such a typically wisecracking reply. “They want to think you’re harmless, when really,” and he tapped his own pocket. 

Cosette shrugged one shoulder, thinking of the weight of the knife that she kept next to her own skin at all times.

And here was one of the improvised kitchens. A refrigerator already piled high with prepared provisions. A double-capacity freezer, and ice for everyone’s drinks later on in the night. The children would need to drink their fill of water and juices, and the older folks would welcome the refreshments as well. 

But her eyes were fixed on one of the squared-off airtight food keepers, the packed-in shapes of dried fruits. 

And here again was Gavroche’s marauding hand, trying to snatch at the food, trying to sneak a bite: he wasn’t of the faith, and as such was not under any form of obligation to fast, and she liked to smile and block him again and again, and she liked to laugh at the exaggerated faces that he pulled as he was thwarted again and again.

“One taste,” he was wheedling now. 

“Wait for the rest of us, you scamp,” she said, and she ran ahead, laughing, to return to the roomful of women and their needles.

And just as she crossed the threshold, the sirens blared out. Laughter in the upstairs rooms, drifting down to Cosette, and she smiled, and pulled away the lid on her container. The wrinkled deep brown of the dates, the vivid golden yellow of the mangoes: dried fruits like jewels, overwhelming sweetness. 

She made sure to serve all of the other women first, helping to break the fast, and finally she rolled her eyes and thrust the container in Gavroche’s direction.

Who laughed, and made a production of tossing a date into his mouth.

She pressed a long piece of dried mango into her mouth and chewed on its leathery rich flavors, blinking as she always did against that assault of sugar on her body that had been enervated by the fast.

“Come,” Yasmin said, beckoning: and out of the corner of her eye she saw Gavroche slip out the door, just visible beyond it, watchful and protective. 

Yasmin led them through the voluntary prayers that accompanied Maghrib, her voice quietly resonant and full of fervor, and afterwards she smiled. Raised a hand to call Cosette to her side. 

“Give my greetings to our friends,” she said. “Say that for them I pray courage and fortitude, even after this holy month has come and gone.”

“I will bring them that message,” Cosette murmured, gratefully.

“Do not make the mistake of stretching yourself too thin, child,” Yasmin added, still gentle, after a moment. “I see you working to help us, to help your father, to help your friends. I see you offering protection and encouragement to others. Though we appreciate your zeal, we worry for your heart and your spirit. These days can take a toll on anyone.”

“Thank you for your kind thoughts,” Cosette said, and stepped forward into the offered embrace. “I will try to care for myself, too.”

“Allah sees that you are doing what you can for this place that has become your home. So let your home care for you, too.”

“I will.”

Another hug, this time from Fatima.

Cosette adjusted her hijab, and accepted the offer of another handful of dates, and then slipped out the door.

“They’ll be eating already,” Gavroche said as he walked with her.

“Éponine always saves you a few plates,” Cosette laughed. “I don’t know why you’re fretting so much.”

“I’m hungry!”

She rolled her eyes, and heroically restrained herself from yanking at his hair, and soon enough she was leading him around the last corner to the house where her friends gathered.

“Éponine,” she called.

A window creaking open, and a pair of bright eyes looking down at her. “Cosette, Gavroche, we were worried for you,” Courfeyrac said, and then she saw him waving into the room and then the door nearest her was opening swiftly and silently.

On the other side of the door: Grantaire, who kept a bottle of wine for himself and thrust one of fruit juice into her hands. “Drink up,” he said. 

“Cheers,” she said, and tapped her bottle against his. Pastel-hued liquid, cool and welcome, dissolving the thorns in her throat.

Upstairs to the innermost room and the large circular table that groaned with all the dishes set out willy-nilly: cheeses and olives and hard-boiled eggs. Hard-boiled eggs in brown sauce, grilled chicken, several different vegetables in several different curries. Jewel-hued sweets in glittering syrup, and a profusion of fruits. 

“Cosette,” and it was Enjolras, smiling. “Welcome back.”

“Yasmin sends her regards,” she said, clasping his offered arm. 

“And give her mine, if you would. It’s only a matter of time before we can bring in the supplies that she needs, and then we can set out on the next rescue mission. Am I right in assuming you’re coming with us again?”

“No one could keep me away,” she said.

“No wonder I have to stick close,” said a throaty voice, and Cosette laughed and threw her arms around the woman who wore no head coverings on account of her boy’s disguise. 

“Éponine,” she said, releasing her only to nudge her shoulder.

“I am safe. Thank you for worrying,” was the reply. 

And that was followed by an empty plate. “Eat up. I made the fish.”

“Oh, thank you,” Cosette said, and she passed a bowl of sour soup to a grinning Gavroche.

Safe, she thought, and there would be more feasting when her father returned, and for now she was among friends.

**Author's Note:**

> This was originally posted to [my Tumblr](http://ninemoons42.tumblr.com/).


End file.
